Abruptly, Cale’s spell ended. He knew it because the easterner’s eyes cleared; his expression turned from fearful to defiant.
Cale grabbed him by his cloak and shook him.
“What are you?” he pressed.
“The abyss take you,” the easterner said.
Riven slammed a dagger into the man’s hand, pinning it to the barrel and eliciting a scream of agony.
“Wrong answer,” the assassin hissed. He replaced the gag and reached around to pick up a hammer and several nails from his black bag. “I’ll begin with your kneecaps.”
Cale halted him with a hand on his wrist and a shake of his head.
Riven glared at him, his eye hard, and said, “He knows more, Cale.”
Cale knew, but he couldn’t get it, not that way. He shook his head again.
Riven gave way. With an angry snarl, he turned to the easterner and thumped him in the temple with his hammer. Not a killing blow. The man groaned and sagged, unconscious.
“You’ll regret this,” Riven said, and began to gather up his implements.
Maybe, Cale thought. But he knew he would have regretted the alternative more.
When he and Riven emerged from the barn, he saw that the rain had stopped at last. Behind them, the bound easterner lay unconscious on the wood-planked floor. Cale was pleased that they had not resorted to … other methods. The spell-enhanced interrogation had revealed enough.
The halfling saw them coming. He hopped off the trough upon which he sat. Even in the dark, Cale could see that the color had drained from Jak’s face.
“Is he …?”
“No,” Cale said. “Just unconscious.”
Jak started to walk past them for the barn. Cale stopped him.
“It didn’t come to that, Jak.”
Jak looked him in the face, judging the truth of Cale’s words. He nodded.
“What would you do anyway, Fleet?” Riven spat, contempt heavy in his tone. “Comfort him?”
“Ignore him,” Cale said. He guided Jak back to the trough, sat him down, and sat down beside him.
To get the halfling’s mind on other things, he went right into what they had learned.
Jak’s eyes went wide.
“Shade!” the halfling exclaimed. “Like the Netherese? Burn me, Cale! Those dark hearted bastards aren’t even human. I’ve heard …” He stopped and shook his head. “Why?”
Cale shrugged. “Immortality. Power. Something else. We don’t know. In the end, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t over just because we got Ren back. We’re going to stop the mage, and we’re going to kill him.”
Jak nodded, pulled his pipe from a belt pouch, and twirled it between his fingers. His eyes went to Cale’s pack.
“How does the sphere fit into this?” the halfling asked.
Cale shook his head and answered, “Not sure of that either. Maybe it tells him when to enter the temple, or when to perform the ritual. Maybe something else altogether. But at least now we learned the where and the what. We know where to start looking. And in the morning, we take the sphere to Sephris and find out the when.”
“The morning …” Jak said, nodding, and his gaze went distant. He sat silent for a time. “What about him?” he asked at last, indicating the barn.
“It, you mean,” Riven said. “That’s not a man, Fleet. His wounds start to close the moment they’re made.”
Jak looked at Cale sharply.
“Only a couple,” Cale explained. “Just to knock him out.”
Jak accepted that.
Riven said, “Only one thing to do with a creature like that. We cut him into pieces and burn the remains. Not even a troll comes back from that.”
Riven said it so matter-of-factly that even Cale blanched. Jak went pale.
“That a problem for you, Fleet? The Harpers didn’t teach you how to get your hands dirty?”
“Piss off,” Jak barked. “I know what you wanted to do in there. I know what you are.”
Those words reminded Cale of Tazi’s rebuke. I know what you are. He felt covered in filth and was not sure that he could ever get it off.
Riven stepped toward Jak and eyed him coldly.
“You don’t know a thing, little man. You never leave enemies alive behind you. Never. You’d see that if you stopped thinking like a woman.”
Jak bristled. His hand went to his short sword.
“Enough,” said Cale, and he grabbed Jak’s wrist.
In his heart, Cale knew that Riven was right. They couldn’t leave the easterner alive. Jak couldn’t yet see that, but he would. He just needed some time. Cale was going to have to cover Jak’s soul in filth too.
“Let me think about it,” Cale said, and he put a subtle emphasis on the word “me” while he eyed Riven. To Jak, he said, “You do the same.”
“Cale …” Riven said.
“Leave it alone,” Cale snapped, and Riven did. Cale took a deep breath. “We can’t take him back into the city, so we’ll have to sleep here tonight.
“In the barn?” Jak asked, obviously appalled.
Riven sneered.
“No,” said Cale. “The rain has stopped. Outside. Here. Find a dry spot and we’ll light a fire. We’ve all done it before. We keep a watch on the easterner throughout the night. We’ll decide tomorrow what to do with him. Agreed?”
He looked each of Jak and Riven in the eye, saw no overt disagreement, and decided to be satisfied with that.
The dying embers of the fire provided Serrin’s current form little warmth. He lay on his side on the damp ground, his arms and legs tightly bound with cord, his mouth gagged with a strip of cloth. Through slitted eyes, he watched the halfling. The little creature watched Serrin wearily through bloodshot eyes. The other two humans slept nearby—the one-eyed assassin and the bald priest. They had threatened Serrin with pain; soon he would teach them all the true meaning of the term. Already he could imagine the sticky sweetness of their heartsblood on his tongue. He savored the thought of the taste. He had fed on humans before. Like most of his broodmates, he preferred the creamy consistency of brains.
For a time he feigned sleep and listened to their breathing—deep and regular. He knew that the time to stop that breathing was approaching. After that, he would return to Azriim and his brood.
The fact that Azriim had abandoned him bothered him little. Serrin would have done the same. He and Azriim were broodmates, nothing more. Their kind did not waste time on idle sentimentality. Existence offered only two alternatives, Serrin knew: pleasure and pain. Power was the sole means of gaining the former and administering the latter. There was nothing else to life. The emotions supposedly “felt” by humans only obscured that basic truism.
Besides, saving Serrin would have taken time, created risk, and possibly compromised the Sojourner’s cause. And Serrin and Azriim’s ultimate loyalty—indeed, the ultimate loyalty of the whole brood—was to the Sojourner. It was the Sojourner who had bred them from chaos. It was the Sojourner alone who could give them what they craved: freedom from service and the transformation to gray. In short, the Sojourner offered them power.
But first, Serrin thought, he would administer some pain.
He opened his eyes wide and stared at the halfling. The small creature returned his gaze without blinking but Serrin could smell the unease in his sweat. He grinned around the gag and the halfling went pale. His hand went to his paltry blade. He started to stand.
With only a thought, Serrin effected a spell that would hold the halfling immobile. The small creature gave a muted squeak and went rigid. He would have used the spell in the barn but it could affect only one person. He listened carefully. The others slept on without stirring. The stink of the halfling’s fear increased. Serrin inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma.
Another thought, and he brought into being a magical force, a physical manifestation of the power of his mind. With that invisible mental “hand,” he reached out and slowly unsheathed the dagger at the halfling’s belt. The ha
lfling’s increasing terror was palpable.
Serrin lifted the blade to the halfling’s throat, let its edge linger there for a time, then hover before his eyes. The little creature’s heart was racing, Serrin knew.
But not for long.
Sweat beaded on the halfling’s brow. He was desperate to slip the immobilizing effect of Serrin’s spell, but to no avail. Serrin’s magic was too strong, the halfling’s mind too weak.
Serrin removed the blade from before the halfling’s face, floated it through the air, and brought it near his own bound body. Ever mindful of the other sleeping humans, he used the blade to silently slice through the cord and rope that bound him. He kept his unblinking gaze on the halfling throughout, promising with his eyes what he would do in only moments.
When he was free, he lay silent and still for a moment, letting the fear build in the halfling, letting the blood flow return to his pathetic human limbs. He kept his eyes on the little creature throughout. The sweat on the halfling’s face glistened in the dying embers of the fire.
Serrin took the halfling’s dagger in his hand and slowly sat up. The air was pungent with the stink of the halfling’s terror. He could fairly feel the mind of the little rat struggling to slip free of the spell.
Vain. Vain. All vain.
Serrin unfolded himself and stood up, his movements as silent as a whisper. He stared down at the horrified halfling. Three strides away, the would-be torturers slept. Serrin cocked his head, studying the one-eyed human, so vulnerable….
But no. The halfling would make for amusing sport first. His terror had whetted Serrin’s appetite.
He turned back to eye the little creature. He stepped forward, the dagger bare at his side. Sweat poured down the halfling’s face. Veins pulsed in his forehead. Serrin kneeled down and took the halfling’s face in his hand.
He pushed himself into the halfling’s mind and found it a jumble of terror and frustration. Not a coherent thought to be found.
You’re frightened, he projected into the halfling’s mind, and savored the creature’s shock at the telepathic contact. I smell it.
He leaned forward and ran his tongue along the halfling’s jawline, just above the jugular, drinking in the sweat.
I taste it.
The pathetic little being actually tried to control its fear by praying. Serrin smiled. No god would help this one.
All at once, he decided to let the halfling see him, the real him, in his true form.
He mentally recited the words that allowed him to take other forms, and with that, he began to change, to grow. When his feeble human fingers had once more become his claws, when his mouth had once more become his maw, he gave the halfling a grin wide enough to swallow the little creature’s head.
When the halfling’s prayers turned to mental screams, Serrin smiled. He enjoyed the fear for a moment, then began to administer pain.
Cale knew that he was dreaming but could not wake himself. He sat in his favorite chair back in his quarters in Stormweather Towers. Strangely, flames consumed his bed, but he warmed his hands before the blaze as though it was a campfire. A chill breeze blew through his only window, sealed not with his usual shutters but with draperies—red curtains with green ovals. Odd, he thought. He had never had draperies in his room.
The breeze gusted, grew harsher, colder, and the curtains began to tear. Strips peeled off and blew around the room. He thought he could hear the whisper of a scream as they shredded. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and held his hands before the dancing flames.
“Chill wind blowing,” said Riven from beside him.
Cale turned with a start. He had not noticed Riven before. The assassin sat in Thamalon’s favorite rocking chair, the one made from Archendale walnut. Strangely, Riven’s right eye was the scarred hole. Cale would have sworn it was Riven’s left eye that should be gone. This could not be Riven, could it? Tiny stars seemed to twinkle in the blackness of the empty socket. Cale leaned in closer to better see—
—and without warning, Riven leaped from the chair, grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed into his face, “Wake up!”
Cale snapped open his eyes, heart racing. Beside him, the campfire had burned down to embers. He lay still and stared up at the cloudy night sky. What had the dream meant?
He heard a sound, like wet fabric being slowly torn, like curtains shredding in the wind. His skin went gooseflesh. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked across the campsite to Jak. …
A horror stood over the halfling, flaying him alive.
“Jak!” Cale leaped to his feet, blade bear, holy symbol somehow already in his hand.
The creature uttered a surprised hiss and dropped into a hunched crouch as it whirled to face him.
To Cale’s right, Riven awakened with a gasp, his hand going immediately to his unsheathed sabers, which lay beside him. He took in the scene in a breath.
“Dark!” he cursed, and scrambled to his feet.
Even hunched the creature stood taller than Cale, with warty green skin as creased and rough as old leather. Beside it Jak—held immobile by some spell, Cale assumed—looked as small as an infant. Arms as thick as Cale’s legs ended in long, black nails; legs as wide as a man’s waist ended in splayed, clawed feet. Veins, muscles and sinew pulsed and flexed with each movement of its powerful frame. A flat head, dominated by a wide mouth and row upon row of teeth, sat on a short, thick neck. Its face struck Cale as vaguely amphibian. Somehow, it reminded him of a toad. Its eyes were merciless gray slits—the easterner’s eyes.
This was the easterner’s true form, Cale intuitively knew. And he also knew, as he had known when he had faced the shadow demon Yrsillar, that this creature was not of Toril.
Jak’s blood, black in the firelight, glistened on its clawed fingers.
“Everything feels pain,” the creature croaked, and winked at Riven.
It stuck its blood soaked fingers in its huge mouth and slobbered them clean.
Cale roared and charged. Riven bounded over the campfire to join Cale’s attack. As he did, the assassin shouted a word that recalled to Cale the syllables the assassin sometimes spoke in his sleep: “Vredlaul!”
The utterance of the word staggered the powerful creature. It stumbled backward a step as though it had been punched in the chest. Cale closed, raised his blade high—
—and the easterner croaked a word of power and darkness fell. Utter pitch. Cale could see nothing. He swung his blade anyway but struck nothing. He froze, dropped into a crouch, and listened.
“Here,” he hissed, so he and Riven could get an idea of where each stood.
“Here,” answered Riven, from his left.
Cale advanced a step, blade held ready for a quick stab in any direction, ears peeled. He had an idea of where Jak was and stayed in that vicinity.
“Here,” he said again.
“Here,” answered Riven, a few steps ahead of Cale but still to his right.
Cale heard nothing. Where was the blasted thing?
As abruptly as it fell, the darkness suddenly lifted. Cale and Riven stood a few paces apart. The creature was gone.
Cale kept his gaze from Jak, at least for the moment. He could not allow himself to be distracted.
He signaled Riven in handcant, Invisible. Move on my signal.
Riven nodded understanding.
Cale waited only a heartbeat before giving the signal.
Both men exploded into action around the campsite. Leaping, lunging, blades cutting the air. Neither struck anything.
“Gone,” Riven said afterward, sweating and breathing heavily.
“Stay alert,” Cale said, and he went to Jak.
The spell still held the halfling immobile. The easterner had broken all of his fingers. They twisted and jutted at angles that made Cale’s stomach turn. Too, the creature had bared Jak’s chest and flayed the skin and muscle above his heart. Cale could see the white of bone peeking through that shredded mass of red. The easterner had done t
o Jak what Riven had threatened to do to the easterner.
Cale held his breath as he held his ear to the halfling’s mouth. There! Breath. Jak still lived, despite the torture he had endured. Cale could hardly imagine the pain Jak had felt, was still feeling. Tears threatened but he held them back.
“I’m sorry, little man. I’m sorry.”
They should have killed the easterner! They should have cut him up and burned him to ash, just as Riven had said. Cale would never make that mistake again. Not with any of them. Two and two were four, bastards.
He had prayed for spells from Mask earlier in the night—at midnight, during his watch—and had requested spells of healing. Mask had granted his request, and had also granted Cale knowledge of another prayer that Cale had never before cast. Fortunately, that spell was not necessary.
Eyes blurry with tears, Cale recited prayers of healing, pouring into them all of his concern for Jak. One spell. Another. Another.
The wounds in Jak’s flesh slowly closed, shrank to only white scars. Bone reknit. His breathing grew more regular. His body was healed. His soul …?
“Hang on,” Cale said.
He clutched his holy symbol, and whispered a spell that would free Jak from his paralysis.
The moment the spell took effect, Jak gasped and fell forward. Cale caught him and pulled him close. He could feel the halfling shaking, crying. Cale said nothing, only held his friend and waited for him to gather himself.
Jak could say nothing, only cried and quietly vented into Cale’s cloak the pain and rage that his immobility had prevented him from expressing previously.
“I’m sorry, Jak,” Cale said finally.
“What in the gods’ names are you sorry about?” Riven said, his tone as cold as Deepwinter. “If Fleet wasn’t so averse to doing what needs done, this never would have happened.”
Cale shot the assassin a look so heated that even Riven wilted. Had he been within arm’s reach, Cale would have killed him.
“You keep your godsdamned hole shut or I’ll put my blade through it and out the back of your head. Then I’ll cut you to pieces and burn you to ash. You understand? Do you understand?”